


Not Until We are Lost (Do We Begin to Understand Ourselves)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, Gen, Hurt and comfort, Kneeling, Kneeling verse, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2091438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Game 7 against the Wild, Nathan is lost and needs Jean to direct him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Until We are Lost (Do We Begin to Understand Ourselves)

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in a (mild) AU where it's normal for rookies to kneel to veterans. Everything else is as accurate as I can make it, though.

“Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.”—Henry Thoreau

It was nearing dusk the day after Game Seven of the Western Conference Quarterfinals against the Minnesota Wild, and Jean, unsure of whether his presence would be welcomed or even tolerated, knocked on the door to Nate’s bedroom, which hadn’t been opened since Nate took refuge there last night as soon as they returned from the game that would be the last of the playoffs for the Avalanche. 

Up until around one o’clock, Jean had assumed that Nate, acting like a normal eighteen-year-old who just happened to be a rookie sensation with an NHL record of seven points in his first two playoff appearances, was just sleeping late. Sleep would have been good for Nate’s still growing, adolescent body and for his mind to numb some of the pain of playoff elimination, but, once the sun sank deeper into the sky, Jean and his wife Kristen had started to worry when a pajama-clad Nate hadn’t materialized in the kitchen for some form of food. After all, teenage boys—Nate being no exception to this rule—always ate as if they feared food was about to be made illegal, so it was disquieting to have practically a whole day slip by without the sounds of him rummaging through the fridge and cupboards in search of promising snacks. 

Pinching the ridge of his nose when Nate did not respond to his knock, Jean rapped his knuckles harder against the door. When silence remained his only answer, Jean, wondering if Nate was trying to set an NHL record for the longest sleep streak by a rookie, opened the door, expecting to see the blinds down and Nate sprawled across the mattress in the grip of some hopefully sweet dream. It turned out that the blinds were closed and Nate was spread-eagled on his bed, but his empty eyes were open and buds—probably thumping something dark and brooding—were tucked into the shells of his ears. 

As Nate removed the buds from his ears and stowed them on his maple nightstand, Jean commented by way of apology and explanation for his intrusion, “I knocked, but you didn’t hear me.” 

“Sorry,” Nate mumbled, grabbing the pillow his head had been propped against and throwing it on the floor. 

At first, Jean interpreted this as a typical teenage surge of temper, but when Nate slid off the bed and knelt on the pillow, Jean’s eyes widened to the size of quarters in shock. Having played almost a round six-hundred games in the NHL, he was well aware that some rookies found comfort and focus in kneeling for veterans after bad games, but Nate, who had the maturity of a player with several NHL seasons under his belt despite the fact that he was only eighteen, had never seemed the sort who would need or benefit from this custom. 

“I failed, Jiggy,” rasped Nate, sounding as if allergies were clogging his sinuses, his voice hoarse from a day of disuse and his head bowed in shame. “I’m a failure.” 

“No.” Weak-kneed at the idea of Nate drawing that terrible message from a season in which he had broken Gretzky’s record for most consecutive games with a point for a rookie, Jean sat down on the bed and tried to be authoritative but sympathetic for Nate’s sake. “That couldn’t be farther from the truth.” 

“I was out of position on the goal that sent the game into overtime.” Nate’s fingers clenched into fists around the silk of the pillowcase as he relived his mistake for what was probably the millionth time since the buzzer ending regulation time had rang last night. “I thought I could block the shot, so I slid down onto the ice, but Spurgeon deked me and scored. I messed up, and I’m the reason we lost the series.” 

A color commentator would probably crack open the old chestnut about the resiliency of youth in relation to Nate’s specific gaffe, but, from raising his own children, Jean knew that the young perceived every error as monumental. When the faux pas occurred in front of a sold-out arena and a televised audience that likely numbered in the millions, it probably felt apocalyptic and, with all the humiliation associated with the mistake, the end of the world, at that moment, wouldn’t exactly be unwelcome. 

“One mistake doesn’t erase all the good things you did for the team this series,” pointed out Jean, ruffling Nate’s hair, which was already in disarray from lounging on bed too long and most likely from Nate’s nervous hands tearing at too many times when the memory of Spurgeon’s goal flashed through his cranium. “If you think that you didn’t have an excellent series, your four points in game two and overtime winner in game five say hello.” 

“I should have been better.” Nate stared up at Jean, and the purple rings under his eyes announced more clearly than words that last night had been a sleepless one for him and tonight might be as well if Jean didn’t find out how to rid him of at least a fraction of his guilt.“In the playoffs, I have to be better. Scoring and assisting isn’t good enough. I have to be strong on defense, too.” 

“This won’t be your last playoff series,” said Jean, and he felt as if he could fall into the gulf of experience separating them, because the series against the Wild had been his last playoff run but it was only Nate’s first—surely of many—in the NHL. “Take what you’ve learned from this one and apply it in the next series you play. You have a lot more great playoff moments in your future, believe me.” 

“I should’ve been more responsible defensively.” Nate ducked his head again, and Jean, frustrated that nothing seemed to be piercing through the teenager’s disappointment, sighed. “Do you think that Patty’s angry with me, Jiggy?” 

“Nathan, look at me and listen.” With firm fingers, Jean tilted Nate’s chin up so their gazes locked on each other. “You made a mistake. Patty’s not going to yell at you for that. He doesn’t treat his players like garbage when they mess up. You know that by now.” 

“At the beginning of the season, Patty made a deal with me.” His mouth twisting, Nate bit his lower lip. “He said that I could play big minutes if I was defensively responsible. Last night, he gave me important minutes, but I didn’t keep my end of the bargain.” 

“Even Bergeron, Kopitar, and Toews blow their coverage sometimes, and they’re Selke nominees.” Jean squeezed Nate’s shoulder. “Nobody’s perfect, but what Patty would be really disappointed about is you not having fun like he told you to do when the playoffs started.” 

“I don’t want to rain on your parade.” Rolling his eyes in a way that implied that the previous sentence was pure sarcasm or a total falsehood, Nate went on, “Unfortunately, it’s a little difficult to have fun when you’ve just been eliminated from the playoffs.” 

“Come on.” Giving Nate’s shoulder a final clap before rising from the bed, Jean had a lightning bolt of inspiration about how to cheer up a young rookie whose mood swings were as linked to his stomach’s satisfaction as any eighteen-year-old male’s. “I’m going to take the wife and kids out to sushi. Do you want to tag along and forget your wallet?” 

“Sure.” Smiling slightly for the first time since Jean had entered the room, Nate began fumbling around on the floor in a search for shorts and a T-shirt that passed the sniff test for appropriate cleanliness. “Just let me throw some clothes on and run a comb through my hair. I’ll be ready in five minutes or less.”


End file.
